Does the muse believe in divine intervention and/or karma or do they believe in taking revenge into their own hands?
THEY WANTED TO RIP GODS APART.
Suffocation imbibing lungs as if a beast guffawing its prey. Dust-filled attic permeating their puerile senses — and they were too young to comprehend that destruction was not meant to be a routine. They hadn’t yet understood the shattering plates, the broken ribs, and sniffles of a shattered mother, they couldn’t have possibly comprehended as to why lifting their voice to ask for a bottle of ketchup must end with two brims of their molars missing by the end of the night. It was out of love, those people said, it’s because you acted out and you need to stop don’t you realize you’re making things worse, he said. They had never learned how to put those pieces together, how to fix their own broken parts to make things better, they just knew that apparently the best way to educate them was by grinding their mouth across the tiles until they shut up and the world swirled into obscurity.
When they woke up, they’d ask if they had deserved it. When it was their sister that was put on the radar they had roared through their stuffed, red-splattered nose if there was anyone, anything, that could stop it.
THEY WANTED TO SHRED THEIR LIMBS, AND HIS.
They never had an answer. In a fetal state they had pleaded to whichever divine being up there for an aiding palm, if not for them then their mother, their horrified sister. The only retort they had received was a raucous thunderstorm, a hiccup that was too agonizing to swallow and one heave that felt like they were rupturing their own limbs.
Minds change — tranquility arrives a step too late but it’s there. Safety of a family now encumbers them when their mind jolts in the middle of the night, coaxing enough with the blotched red of a nightmare that will never die until they do. They don’t think of those figures as much anymore, his voice only slithers when the eves become cold, hell, they have learned how to cite shahadah to evidently tumble the cataclysm. But it’s not gone, you see, they don’t let it go completely, her wrath isn’t supposed to detach like that — it can’t, he’s permanently ingrained into her. It nestles and coils like decayed vermin — and it waits.
It’s both a conflict, and a staggering balance.
When they witness people wearing masks in the red light district, do they feel ‘off’ or suspicious? What are their views of the popularity of wearing masks within the district?
It’s a shoddy fucking thing, no?
The red light was a corner they frequented for packs of smokes, piss-poor Jameson, and nameless countenances whose place they could use for a decent night's sleep — if they were fortunate enough, that was. Most of the time they would have pried their eyes open still, ass-bare when whichever begarred soul that had taken them in had crumpled in for the evening and they would have to tend the blacks-and-blues from another match well-done. Taking seconds of freedom as if they had actually inhibited the resident, they would loiter towards the balcony and observed the veils on those vanities, concealed only beneath the hooded leather jacket they would tuck themselves in to keep themself comforted.
It was peculiar — sometimes enough to give them chills, like the air was absorbed out of them solely from ruminating about what kind of shitshow one might conceal underneath all of that. Though at the end of the day they were naught but — people, as eerie as it might be. They watched as those blips of society collided elbows, chuckled, twined digits to one another and perhaps it was just a contrasting notion from the commodity outside the district — deceit on the forefront, leaving behind whatever flavor of humanity in fragments instead.
It was morbidly fascinating, and if their hand happened to not be mangled from their boxing round, they would slide their notebook and pencil and document them in a loose-fitting silence.
Where do their loyalties lie? If they are affiliated or loyal to any particular syndicate or group, would they switch sides if given an incentive or reason to grovel?
Their involvement with the Bombers might have been brief, but the adherence to their beliefs remained to this day.
Sipping the hand-made lemonade on a lone porch of their shared homestead, it was a tale often deeply mulled over whenever they felt like looking back. A sapidity of dissent against the malpractices executed by those with grimer smiles and a palm to tide over discrepancies — the strife they had barked against those had been fractious and vernal, yet all settling within the homely cusp of their judgment, as someone who had grown up with rims of delinquency and wrath against puppeteers. Callous as they might have been in their youth, they had remained ardent to the practices, and if it weren’t for the fact that they had chosen to hang up their hat for a life with their own, smaller troupe, they would have not even considered even an ounce of treachery — regardless of the adamance that they had at times hoisted with their decisions.
